


Lynx's Claws and Wolf's Mane

by Kaleran



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Brick and musical in a blender, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Fantine (character), I'll 1v1 Victor Hugo about Transvert, Internalized Transphobia, Javert is Trans, Javert's Mother (Character), M/M, Romani Javert, Trans Character, Trans Enjolras, Trans Javert, Trans Male Character, implied Enjolras/Grantaire - Freeform, one-sided Valvert, people who die in canon still die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 04:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14926751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaleran/pseuds/Kaleran
Summary: When he is older, when he is a prison guard, he thinks back to his childhood and realizes he had been considerably fortunate."Prison is no place for a girl like you," his mother told him often, usually fussing with what rags they could use for clothing. "Forgive me for this, draga mea."And so, instead of a daughter, she pretended to have a son.





	Lynx's Claws and Wolf's Mane

**Author's Note:**

> There is not enough period-trans fics so I must fill the void. Also, this is entirely historically accurate and Hugo never specified that Javert is cis, so i'm sorry that makes javert canon trans i dont make the rules. 
> 
> I know way too much about passing as male in the 1800s, so thanks to the Great Charles Dickens Christmas Fair workshops for accidentally giving me this forbidden knowledge. It's for a good cause.
> 
> Thanks for the Sewers of Paris discord server for kicking my ass to finally post this! <3

When he is older, when he is a prison guard, he thinks back to his childhood and realizes he had been considerably fortunate.  
  
"Prison is no place for a girl like you," his mother told him often, usually fussing with what rags they could use for clothing. "Forgive me for this, draga mea."  
  
And so, instead of a daughter, she pretended to have a son.  
  
His hair is cut short to his ears, his girlish figure hidden by bulky clothes and excused by being an exceptionally lean child. All children's voices are high, a blessing in disguise, and it is some time before he learns to lower the pitch to sound more like a boy. It gives his voice an odd, ugly quality, but he does not mind it. There is very little modesty in prison, yet somehow he is never fully naked while in view of the guards or other prisoners, hidden by his mother’s frayed shawl or turned to face the wall. He is never gifted a given name of either gender and instead he is simply Javert.  
  
He does not consider it strange until later that he does not mind it. The idea of being female, truly female with dresses and pet names and long shining hair, is in fact disagreeable. He does not wish to be called 'she' or 'her', does not want daintiness or beauty. The masculine fits his preferences and his temperament. No, not even his mother could call him feminine by any manner. His waist may be slim and his fingers long enough to be considered elegant, but he is too tall, too gangly, too stubborn to be anything but a boy. Although his face is round, his features are ugly and he takes pride in his thick eyebrows, his large nose, how his smile is more like a snarl. His laugh, once high and feminine, is beat down to a rough bark. There are few instances where he laughs.  
  
Javert hears what the guards and the other prisoners call his mother, what they spit in her face. He knows precisely what they think of a gypsy whore and her bastard son and thinks that he is not missing anything desirable by disguising himself. It is then that he decides he will never dress as a woman. He is an outcast of society from birth; this denial of his gender makes him more so. There are only two bearable places for someone like him: in prison as a criminal, or outside of it as a guard. The choice is not difficult.  
  
"Dragă, when you go out into the world," his mother starts, fussing with his clothes again.  
  
"Do not call me that," Javert interrupts coldly in his artificially lowered voice, swatting her hands aside. "I am no girl."  
  
He does not think of his childhood often.  
  
Somehow, he did not expect to grow breasts. They are small, round things with sensitive brown nipples. He finds them distasteful and ties them down with strips of fabric. His ribs and back complain, so much so that it is nearly unbearable and interferes with his movements. It is not long before he finds a fabric that, once cut on bias, has enough give that it binds his breast to his satisfaction with far less pain. His mother had taught him how to sew and it is the only thing he learned from her that he is thankful for. He makes himself two, with buttons running up the side under his armpit to hold them in place, and hides them. He washes them himself in secret. They make him sweat in the hot summer, but he bears it. He must, for the sake of not being found out. He will defy his born sex. He will not be a woman. Even the thought makes him feel ill.  
  
He works through menstrual cramps and hides his soiled rags. When his hips widen, he spends more money than he cared to use on a greatcoat that is a bit too large. As an afterthought, he sews padding into the shoulders to make his frame seem wider than it is. He is tall for a woman, when he stops growing, and he is thankful for it. Even so, he asks for extra height in his boots so he towers over most others.  
  
When he becomes a guard, there is no question that Javert is a man. His waist is still slender and there is no way to disguise it, but there are only a few joking comments from the others that first make him think he has been discovered. When it is clear that they are only jokes, they are easy to dismiss.  
  
The prisoners make comments too, jeers and taunts that are not as simple to dismiss as the jests of the other guards. Unlike the guards, Javert can punish the prisoners for such remarks and does so often, citing delinquency and disrespect of their betters. His cudgel becomes feared and his arms becomes strong.  
  
He climbs through the ranks with a stubbornness that is rare in even men. His temper is known by prisoners and guards alike, his cutting tongue legendary. Even his name, Javert, is said with a degree of respect. He commands it, demands it. No woman is like him, no woman could be as demanding as he is. There is always the fear of discovery, but this pride in his work surpasses even that.  
  
He is transferred to Paris. He is still considered young, but he is a young man and not a young woman and that is all that matters. His face did not lose its feminine roundness over the years like he had hoped, and it is at this point in a young man's life when he should be growing facial hair. It had been noticed in Toulon that he did not even grow stubble like most men and was in fact a cause for embarrassment. However, this is something that he is relieved to find could be rectified.  
  
Before he makes his first report in Paris, he finds himself a very discrete kind of shop that caters to a very specific clientele. There exist men, men who are naturally men and not unnaturally as Javert thinks of himself, who cannot not grow facial hair. Shops such as these could create very convincing artificial beards for such men. They are attached to the face with a special sort of waterproof resin and are able to withstand the elements. A full beard is expensive, certainly above the considerable sum that Javert is willing to spend. It would have to be washed and would get in the way of eating and drinking so it is easy to dismiss. Instead, he has made a pair of thick, bushy sideburns that cover his rounded features. It does no favor to his looks, making him uglier than before. Only a man can be as ugly as he is. His snarl is all the more intimidating when bordered by bristly whiskers.  
  
Overall, he is pleased. The resin is sticky and can only be fully removed with application of alcohol, another expense, and they must be removed every night and reapplied every morning. It is very much worth the money and the effort. The first time he wears them, he stares at himself in the mirror for long minutes. It is the first time he is not disgusted with his reflection.  
  
Paris is an enlightening experience. There are multitudes of criminals, from pickpockets to murderers, and Javert revels in it. This is what he is meant to do. Police work drives him to work long but fulfilling hours and he learns every law and inscribes their words upon his very soul. Paris may be large, but it is no place for him, at least not now. If he stays, then there is slim chance of promotion and Javert aspires to be something more than a low ranking officer.  
  
He is promoted to Inspector of Police is transferred once more to a small town by the sea. It is not Paris, with its many hidden streets and a criminal around every corner, but it is something. He has power here, reporting to no one but his superiors in Paris and the mayor himself.  
  
It is, unfortunately, not Paris with its specialty stores where he buys the resin for his sideburns. It is more expensive to order it by mail, not to mention strange, but he does what he must. He throws out his older, worn undergarments, the ones that hide the breasts that he still cannot accept that he has, and purchases enough fabric to make three more before he leaves the city. There is no telling when he will be able to find more nor how long he will be stationed here. It is better to err on the side of caution. He will not go back to strips of rags tied about his torso. There is no knowing what deformations that could do to his body and he needs to be in perfect health to work at top efficiency. The pain of that is not worth it when his own design with the fabric he found works perfectly well.  
  
In Toulon, in Paris, there had been no one, male or female, who snared his attention. He thought himself above such romantic notions, the kind that distract men and turn their attention away from their work. There has never been anyone he considered a friend, no one who offered him a drink. It is preferable. The more Javert keeps others at a distance, the less chance someone may find out what he truly is. He has never had a lover, never dared to even think about having the slightest inclinations of anything but feelings of a professional nature towards someone else. He is not prone to daydreaming like some pretty young ladies are. No, Javert prides himself upon his rational thoughts and has never once longed for the company of another.  
  
It is, to his horror, that he starts having such thoughts of the mayor of Montreuil sur Mer.  
  
Monsieur Madeleine is a generous man, a kind philanthropist who cannot be bribed or threatened. He is as tall as Javert would be, if not for the extra addition of sole in his boots, with a kind face and patient demeanor. Javert finds his hazel eyes distracting, his unnecessary praise irritating, and his never ending patience annoying. Still, he finds himself working harder just to perhaps catch a glimpse of the mayor's small, rare smile.  
  
It is utterly infuriating.  
  
He cannot control his thoughts and sometimes his words around the mayor. A remark, a bit of praise, and suddenly his heart leaps in his chest and heat tries to rise to his face and it is an effort to beat it down. The mayor is entirely too kind and Javert does not know what to do with kindness. This is a weakness in him. If he were truly a man, he would have found himself a woman that caused these feelings in him instead of a man. Preferably, he would not have these feelings at all.  
  
Instead, he focuses on the mayor's flaws. There are things about him that make Javert suspicious despite his unfortunate affliction. Madeleine, much like Javert, has no friends and has never taken a lover, much to the dismay of many of the women in town. There is no one in the town that seems to know where he came from, only that one day he appeared. He is knowledgeable about agriculture to a frightening extent, yet he is literate and well read unlike any farmer that Javert has heard of. On occasion, his accent slips into something more unrefined that Javert cannot place. He walks with a limp, his left leg dragging slightly but enough for Javert to notice it. It is very much like the limp of a prisoner dragging a chain.  
  
Javert knows the mayor to be hiding something. There is no reason to hide his origins or his accent otherwise, and Javert knows exactly how much of a toll that can have on a man. Of course, it could be nothing of worth and Javert's suspicions of the mayor are unfounded, but it is the limp that prevents him from completely waving them off.  
  
He spends weeks watching the mayor, telling himself that it is not to spend more time admiring the mayor's handsome looks but to protect the town in case he is correct. It is unfortunate that Madeleine has ensnared his attention. He is distracted, admiring Madeleine's wide shoulders and broad back instead of watching for suspicious activity. Much of the time, the scowl on his face is aimed at no one but himself.  
  
He is weak.  
  
It changes with the incident of a broken cart. The axel had broken and it is slowly sinking into the mud, bearing down on its owner and pinning him to the ground with the weight of it. Javert orders for a jackscrew to be brought and unfastens the horse in an effort to lessen the weight from the cart as much as possible. The horse has two broken legs and Javert relieves it from its misery with a single shot to the head. He too can be merciful.  
  
By this time, a crowd had formed, although none of them step forward to help and simply stand and watch the spectacle. The man under the cart pleads for help but not one of them move. Javert sneers at them for their callousness, but cannot blame them. The cart is heavy and would surely kill anyone who attempts to lift it now, stuck in the mud as it is. Javert is certainly not strong enough to try.  
  
"What is happening?" Madeleine asks him, suddenly at his side.  
  
Javert quickly explains, watching how the mayor's eyes darken with some emotion Javert cannot place. It is almost like fear, a fear that Javert knows well; the fear of being discovered. His suspicions only increase.  
  
"Have you called for a jackscrew?" Madeleine questions.  
  
"It will not be here for another quarter hour yet," Javert answers. "It will be too late."  
  
The man trapped under the cart gives another pained cry for help.  
  
Madeleine's shoulders grow tense. Then, he turns to the crowd, offering money to whoever tries to help. No one volunteers, and the amount increases. Again and again he tries, but no one steps forward to lift the cart.  
  
"I knew a man once," Javert says, a memory coming to him. "He could lift this cart. They called him Jean the Jack for his strength."  
  
Jean Valjean, prisoner 24601. An otherwise unremarkable prisoner, but a dangerous one. He attempted escape on four separate occasions and displayed the usual amount of disrespect, but never once remarked on Javert's less than masculine figure. A small blessing. Javert had heard by sheer chance in Paris that he had broken parole and had disappeared.  
  
Madeleine looks at him and Javert stares back. It hits him that this is who Madeleine reminded him of. The wide back Javert had so admired, the thick arms. Valjean had been a pruner; Madeleine has the same knowledge of agriculture. Could it be?  
  
Madeleine shrugs off his coat and throws off his hat. Somehow Javert is the one who ends up holding them. Then, Madeleine turns and lowers himself to his knees under the cart. The crowd protests, afraid the cart will kill their beloved mayor as well.  
  
Javert hates that even now, suspicions bright in his mind and proof in front of his eyes, he is worried for Madeleine's safety.  
  
Slowly, the cart moves. Madeleine's strong arms are trembling under him as he pushes upward. He makes no sound. Little by little, the cart is lifted from the thick mud on Madeleine's strong back.  
  
Javert cannot tear his eyes away, his heart hammering in his chest under the restraining layer of fabric that conceals his true form. This is a weakness.  
  
He hates that his voice is unsteady when he orders someone to drag the old man out from under the cart. Once he is safe, Madeleine lets the cart down again with a groan of pain. Javert stands on the fringe as the crowd rushes towards him, thanking him and commenting on his courage and strength. He waves off the praise and it is impossible to tell if his face is red from exertion or embarrassment.  
  
"Monsieur le Maire," Javert says at last when the crowd has calmed down. He holds out the mayor's hat, brim tilted towards him and flashing Madeleine a view of the inside. It is disrespect, yes, but Javert knows himself to be petty at times. This show of strength is not enough to convict him and they both know it.  
  
"Ah, thank you Inspector," Madeleine says, ignoring or oblivious of Javert's subtle show of insubordination. There is mud caked onto his trousers at the knees and more smeared on the sleeves of his shirt. Javert clenches his jaw at the lack of embarrassment about his appearance. Even if this man is Valjean, even if he is not who he says he is, that is no way for a proper mayor to appear. It is an insult. Javert always makes certain that his appearance is impeccable; surely someone of Madeleine's position can afford to do the same.  
  
"You are a very strong man," Javert says, holding out the Mayor's coat for him to slip his arms into. Madeleine pauses, looking at him strangely, before turning and putting his arms through the sleeves.  
  
"It reminds me of that man I knew once," Javert continues. "A dangerous and feral convict in Toulon."  
  
"Oh?" Madeleine says. It is too casual. A giveaway.  
  
"He broke parole and ran. No one has seen him in many years. His name was Jean Valjean."  
  
Madeleine tenses under his hands at the name and Javert has him now, pinned under his hands, like prey under a lynx's claws. There is no reason for his hands to stay on Madeleine's, no, Valjean's shoulders. When he removed them, the drift down Valjean's arms of their own accord.  
  
Javert hates that even now, knowing that this is Valjean, he enjoys feeling that strength under Madeleine's coat. He cannot lie. He cannot tell himself that it is not because he has caught Valjean, it is not pride in his work as an enforcer of the law. It is because he has wanted to touch Madeleine like this for long months and knowing that Madeleine is a lie does not change that.  
  
He is weak and he hates it. He hates Valjean for doing this to him.  
  
"Forgive me, Monsieur, for the comparison," Javert says with no trace of apology in his voice.  
  
Madeleine- Valjean- turns to him and they stare eye to eye for several seconds. There is an understanding between them: Javert cannot turn him in without further proof, but if Valjean runs then Javert will not hesitate to chase after him and arrest him at last. They are at a stalemate.  
  
"You are forgiven, Inspector," Valjean says, sounding shaken but utterly sincere. Javert narrows his eyes.  
  
They stare at each other in silence. There is steel in Valjean's eyes but Javert will not back down from a convict.  
  
"Monsieur le Maire," Javert says at last. There is no respect in his voice, only a warning. He gives a shallow bow, a joke of his previous respect for the mayor, then turns and leaves Valjean standing in the street, mud streaking his clothes.  
  
The dance around each other for weeks, neither disrupting the routine they had settled into. They do not speak of what transpired between them that day. If Javert shows him petty disrespect, then it is not mentioned. Valjean is the same as ever, although now he stiffens almost imperceptibly around Javert. There is a thrill to this. He, Javert, with his wide hips and artificial sideburns and bound breasts, can intimidate this dangerous ex-convict by simply being near him. Valjean is the epitome of a man; strong and muscular with a full beard and the power to dominate anyone he so desires with his sheer strength. In this, Javert has beaten him, has proved himself more a man than even Valjean.  
  
Valjean is still utterly kind and it infuriates him. Convicts are not kind. Convicts do not give alms. Convicts do not stand their ground when faced with their betters. Valjean is all of these things and more when he should not be. Javert wants to snarl at him, to demand he cease this farce at once and reveal his true nature, but he is bound by their respective stations. Valjean is still mayor and Javert is still his Inspector. It does not stop Javert from making a mockery of his bows and tainting the mayor's title with sarcastic disrespect.  
  
He no longer has distracting thoughts about the mayor and it is a relief.  
  
It is winter when Javert cannot hold his silence on the matter any longer. He had written a letter to his superiors in Paris a week after the incident with the cart. It stays, sealed but unsent, on his desk, waiting for the day when Javert can convict him.  
  
Of all the things, it is over some common street whore. She had attacked some dandy that Javert honestly does not care for, but the law is the law and assault is a crime.  
  
Javert had not forgotten the insults thrown at himself and his mother. He had not forgotten that, had he been raised female, prostitution would have been the only profession for someone born in prison like him. He sees this whore and he cannot help but think of what might have been. The vision disgusts him.  
  
He snarls at her when she does not comply to his demands. She pleads self defense, that she cannot pay bail, cannot be taken off the streets because she has a child that she sends money to. She must make money because the people taking care of her child demand it. Her child this, her child that. All that matters to her is her child. She speaks of nothing else.  
  
Memories of his own mother rise to the surface of his mind unbidden. He remembers how she had sheltered him and protected him at the expense of her own wellbeing. He had worn her altered clothes, she had taught him how to sew so he would be able to do it on his own when he is separated from her, and she had cut his hair in a style that he wears to this day. She had done whatever little she could to help him, to ease his way in life despite being in prison. He tells himself he does not care and knows it to be a lie.  
  
He looks at this fallen woman and sees himself. He blazes with hate.  
  
Then Valjean interrupts, overriding Javert's power with his own false title and gives the whore a chance to explain herself. She spits in his face and he calmly wipes it away. She places blame and insults on him and he only looks more guilty, taking her faults onto himself. He takes her in his strong arms and brushes Javert aside without a second thought.  
  
Valjean comes in like some guardian angel and gives this whore the chance his mother never had. That Javert never would have received.  
  
He seethes. He rages. Most of all, he hates.  
  
The letter is taken off his desk with a violent sweep of his arm and mailed the next day. He has no regrets.  
  
When he receives a reply, he is forced to sit down. He stares at the letter for several minutes, stupefied by the contents. Valjean has been caught. Madeleine cannot be Valjean because Valjean is in Arras awaiting trial. Madeleine is innocent.  
  
Javert had been wrong.  
  
He walks to the Mairie with his tail between his legs. The way he had treated Madeleine these last weeks is unforgivable. To even imagine that a convict could become a mayor is unforgivable. Javert was wrong. He cannot afford to be wrong, because he is the law and the law is never wrong. The only suitable punishment for him is to be dismissed.  
  
He does not look at the mayor when he makes his apology. Madeleine says nothing until he is finished, then, oddly, asks for information on the trial. It is not of his concern, but Javert informs him anyway. He shall not disobey the mayor again.  
  
"You will dismiss me," he says, standing at perfect parade rest.  
  
"Why?" Madeleine asks, sounding honestly surprised. "You have done nothing wrong."  
  
"I have denounced you of being a dangerous ex-convict-- is that not enough? I have insulted you in the greatest way, disobeyed you, disrespected you. I am a disgrace to my profession, and so you must dismiss me."  
  
"You are forgiven, Javert," Madeleine tells him. "You will stay an Inspector." It is an order.  
  
He almost tells the mayor of his true nature to force the issue, but cannot bring himself to say the words. They rise like acid in his throat, choking him. He will not be a woman.  
  
The trip to Arras is long and boring. There is no way to make the stubborn mayor change his mind and so Javert constructs ways to more efficiently do his duty. The mayor is too forgiving. Javert does not deserve this chance to redeem himself.  
  
The trial is also boring. One glance at the man and Javert knows he is Jean Valjean. The testimonies of three other prisoners do not matter to him. This man is older, much closer to looking Valjean's age than Madeleine does, and he is broken to a stuttering, stupid heap. Javert wonders how he could have been so foolish as to mistake the mayor for this man. He leaves in a carriage immediately after leaving the courthouse back to Montreuil sur Mer.  
  
Later, in the small hours of the next morning in fact, he hears that Madeleine had come to the trial long after Javert had left Arras and revealed himself to be Jean Valjean. He had spoken of things that only the three prisoners who were there to testify would know, showed the judge his prison identification number branded on his chest. There is no doubt that Madeleine is Jean Valjean.  
  
Instantly, Javert is awake. He dresses quickly, missing a button on his breast binding and leaving the buckle of his leather stock askew. He finds Valjean at the hospital with the whore who reminds Javert too much of himself, still pretending to play mayor. Upon seeing him, the woman pleads for the mayor's protection.  
  
"There is no Monsieur le Maire here," he snarls, reveling in her shocked expression.  
  
When she falls dead, it feels like he has killed that part of himself at last. It is glorious.  
  
"You have murdered this woman," Valjean says to him.  
  
Javert wants to voice his agreement, to declare, ' _Yes, I have murdered this woman, at long last!_ ’, but he does not.  
  
They argue, and then they fight. Valjean could kill him easily, but this does not deter Javert in the slightest. If he is to die, then he will die as a man, doing what is lawful and right. He fights Valjean as furiously as a wolf with biting insults and cutting jibes as well as swings of his cudgel.  
  
It is in vain. Valjean is powerful and with one punch knocks him out. Javert comes to on the hospital floor with one of the nurses hovering over him and Valjean nowhere to be seen. He snarls at the nurse when she means to inspect him. To have himself discovered here is the last thing he needs. He storms out of the hospital with a splitting headache and annoying spots dancing in front of his eyes and chases after Valjean.  
  
A few days later, he loses him on the outskirts of Paris. He returns to Montreuil sur Mer and writes a report to send to his superiors, still furious. He had revealed the mayor of a small town to be a criminal and they are pleased with him, despite failing to rearrest Valjean. He is promoted and transferred back to Paris. Javert smiles at the news and it is ugly.  
  
Paris has not changed. He returns to the specialty shop and has a new set of sideburns made for himself, as his have not been replaced since the last time he was in Paris. As much care as he takes with them, they are not able to last the years that he demands from them. It is easier to keep his disguise here where he has access to all the materials he requires. His pocketbook suffers for it, but Javert had no other indulgent habits. Once, he had tried snuff and enjoyed it immensely, but it was too costly a habit to keep up when there were more essential things to purchase. A policeman's salary is not large.  
  
He remains an Inspector and is satisfied with his position. Desk work requires reading, which he hates, and he much prefers to walk the streets and make arrests himself. He is perfectly happy to leave the paperwork to someone else. It is unlikely that someone with his origins would be promoted further anyway, so in this he is fortunate. If his sex was known, he would not be here at all.  
  
Parisians do not have the same discretion that the gossipers of Montreuil sur Mer did. His odd, gravely voice is commented on, his slim waist pointed out, his once a month irritability joked about. There is nothing he can do about it, except point out that he is irritable every day of the month because certain officers are more involved in gossip than they are in their work. He has lived this way for so long that he is confident that he will not slip. He does not know how to be a woman, so there is nothing to slip into in the first place. Others finally see him as he sees himself and respect him for it. He is fully content with his life, until he thoughts drift towards a certain convict-mayor. Thinking about how he was made a fool always sends him into a foul mood.  
  
Although he seeks out Valjean, he does not see him for many years. Valjean seems to have the ability to disappear like mist at will. It is most aggravating. He should be rearrested and back in prison instead of being free and traveling who knows where. It is Javert's failing. If he had followed his instincts and arrested Valjean before the trial, then things would have been put to rights.  
  
Valjean is not the only thing he focuses on. To ignore other aspects of his duty to chase after one man is laughable, despite how much of a fool he made out of Javert. He gains a reputation that spreads to all of Paris in the following years that pleases him greatly. They say Javert is not a man but a wolf in human form, that Javert can track down anyone by scent alone, that Javert is incorruptible and brings down the hammer of justice without mercy. He is feared by criminals and respected by law abiding people.  
  
He is not loved. Respect is a greater reward than love.  
  
He thinks nothing of Valjean when he arrests most of the members of the Patron-Minette. There is a thrill in this, of taking criminals off the street and protecting honest citizens. The boy who had tipped him off ran off with his two pistols, but even that does not dampen his mood. It is only when he writes his report that the man they were supposedly robbing, although Javert had his doubts about that, was broad-shouldered and white-haired. He swears violently, abandoning his half finished report in favor of walking the streets to work off his anger. Valjean had been there, and Javert had yet again let him escape through his fingers. If he was working with what remained of the Patron-Minette then there could be trouble brewing. He scowls.  
  
When Jondrette and the rest of the members he arrested escape before their trial, Javert rages. People, both honest and not, flee from his glare for the rest of the week.  
  
He blames Valjean out of sheer frustration.  
  
There are students in the streets waving fliers and speaking of revolution on soap boxes in the parks and Javert can feel something brewing. He does not like it. There is enough trouble in Paris without students stirring up rebellion. He cannot arrest them, as they are not doing anything strictly illegal, but he snaps and snarls at them until they decide to find another place to preach their idiotic ideology. Rebellion will only lead to chaos and death.  
  
Of course, rebellion happens regardless of Javert's wishes. He is one of the first to volunteer as a spy. Information is powerful, and although he finds students irritating at best, he does not desire unnecessary bloodshed. The dragoons will likely be called in to deal with the unrest if it turns violent, of which Javert is certain. It is likely that innocents will be caught in the crossfire and it is Javert's duty to protect the innocent.  
  
It is far too easy to become one of them. He leaves his well-known greatcoat with the padded shoulders and his boots that give him an extra inch in height behind in favor of an unremarkable workman's coat and a pair of old scuffed shoes. It feels odd to be without them. They are as much a part of him as his work is. Leaving them is a necessary, if temporary, sacrifice.  
  
Without two of his most distinguishing features, he is not suspected. He helps construct the barricade and gains the trust of many of them. The barricade itself is a disgrace, a little more than a thrown together pile of wood doubtless stolen from whatever they could find. He cannot arrest them all for conspiring against the monarchy without ruining the entire point of being a spy. Instead, he keeps a tight hold on his expression and waits unnoticed in the corner simply listening to what is being said around him. Their planning is sloppy and only half thought out. The people will not rise today, nor tomorrow, nor the next. It is their idealism that will get them killed.  
  
He seizes the chance to return to the precinct and report what he has found out under the guise of spying on his own men. It is laughable how quickly they believe him. When he returns, they seem to have grown some brains and some little gamin calls him by name. Javert does not deny it. He is taken and tied up inside the cafe and for one fearful second, when they bring the rope around between his legs in a martingale hold, thinks that they have found him out. There is no comfortable remedy for his lack of male genitalia and, covered by his greatcoat, he had never needed one before. They say nothing about it and he relaxes as best he can in the uncomfortable ropes.  
  
The leader watches them, arms crossed over his chest. He is blond and pretty, with rounded androgynous features and no facial hair to speak of. His shoulders are slim and his hands delicate. If Javert were anyone else, he would say he is beautiful. However, Javert is not anyone else, and Javert sees what the others do not. Javert sees his thin waist, his wide hips, the habit of crossing his arms in front of his chest.  
  
"Wait," Javert says to him when he turns away. "I wish to speak with you."  
  
The group of students pause, waiting for him to speak.  
  
"Alone," Javert clarifies.  
  
The students narrow their eyes in suspicion and Javert very nearly rolls his eyes in irritation. Stupid idiots.  
  
"I am bound. I can do no harm," he says, pulling on the ropes to demonstrate. "I only require a moment."  
  
One by one, the leave until it is only Javert and the blond man remain in what used to be the café.  
  
"What do you wish to say?" the leader demands.  
  
"You were born female," Javert states, cutting straight to the point. He must know.  
  
The blond man freezes, a look of terror in his eyes. Confirmation.  
  
"I am a man," he says, strangely without fear. It continues to linger in his eyes.  
  
Javert smiles, showing his teeth. The man stands his ground.  
  
"Then we are the same."  
  
The man stares at him in confusion and Javert simply continues to smile, triumphant.  
  
"That is all I wished to know," Javert says at last, dismissing him.  
  
"Why?" the man asks, baffled. "Why even ask?"  
  
Javert pauses, considering his words. It is unlikely that this boy will speak of this conversation at all, and he will die soon anyway. There is no risk in telling him.  
  
"I wished to know if I was alone," he says at last. All his life he has thought himself a single abnormality. Now he knows he is not, even if the one other is a student who will doubtlessly die within a day. Either way, it is a small, unexpected comfort.  
  
"How long?" the man asks.  
  
"All my life."  
  
"How is it you have those?" He makes a vague gesture indicating Javert's sideburns.  
  
"Artificial, glued on with resin," he answers, somehow supremely relieved to spill his secrets after so many years of silence.  
  
"And the..." The man touches his own chest.  
  
"A garment of my own design, one that is less painful that tying a strip of cloth." It is the thing Javert is most proud of.  
  
There is silence again, the man contemplating what he has learned.  
  
"You will die here," Javert says bluntly, breaking the man's thoughtful silence like a bludgeon through glass. "When your body is found, your sex will undoubtedly be discovered."  
  
"I die for freedom." His voice rings with conviction and Javert knows that it will be no use arguing with him. "What happens to my body after I die is not of my concern."  
  
"It will tarnish your memory, your cause," Javert points out. Truthfully, he shares the man's feelings about what happens to his body after death. However, if he can convince him to surrender, even if the reason is to fight another day, than that is lives saved.  
  
The blond man considers this, then raises his chin in a show of childish stubbornness. "It is of no matter. Our movement is larger than just one man."  
  
Javert snorts dismissively. "Then you die for nothing."  
  
The man sends him a glare, then storms out. Foolish boy. A small part of Javert is saddened that he is losing the one other who is like him. The rest of him simply watches him leave with only irritation at his stubbornness and inability to see sense. The boy is irritatingly compliant, returning to give him water when he asks for it and offering to tie him differently. Javert denies him that, refusing to allow himself any more humiliation.

Sometime after night falls, when Javert's knees are in pain from kneeling on the hard floor and the binding fabric around his torso starts to cause his back and ribs to ache, Valjean appears. He is in the uniform of a national guardsman. It is most unnatural. He belongs in the faded red of a prison smock, not this. They catch eyes immediately, Valjean's widening in surprise. Javert only lifts his lips in an ugly smile.  
  
Why, in all the world, is Valjean here? He was not here before, yet somehow has gotten through despite wearing a uniform. Valjean is here and Javert cannot arrest him. Instead, he's tied up and kneeling in a position to cause humiliation. Javert is not humiliated, only furious and frustrated. They stare at each other for long seconds, Javert's glare eventually winning out when Valjean looks away.  
  
"Give me the spy," he says to the blond leader. "I will... take care of him."  
  
Javert laughs. It is horrible; a loud, gruff bark that makes Valjean jump. It is an unnatural sound, one he had perfected over the years to be as least feminine as possible. The request is absurd. This entire situation is absurd. When Javert had imagined his death, he had never dreamed he would be shot at point blank with Valjean pulling the trigger. It is inelegant. His death will be useless. He had always imagined himself dying in the line of duty. This is simply... disappointing.  
  
The blond leader pauses and locks eyes with Javert again. They are the same, and yet send each other to their deaths. The irony of it falls heavy in his lungs and he suppresses another laugh.  
  
"Take him," he says at last.  
  
Javert hates the pity in his eyes.  
  
Valjean hesitates, eyes flicking between them. Then, when nothing more is said, he takes Javert roughly by the rope and forces him to stand. Javert chokes for a moment when the rope tightens around his throat, then glares at Valjean who has the nerve to look apologetic about it. He sneers at him and the look is gone in an instant. Even now, walking to his death, he has power over Valjean. He smiles, victorious. Valjean looks away.  
  
Valjean leads him to a narrow, dank alley that reeks of stale water and mold. Javert looks around with disgust. This is where he will die, in some nameless dark alley during a rebellion he failed to stop. This is where his life has lead him. It is not even an honorable death. Shot by a convict. He gives a quick exhale of breath through his considerable nostrils. Pitiful.  
  
Valjean steals a knife off a body and Javert scowls at him.  
  
"Once a thief, always a thief," he growls. There is no fear, only irritation that it is Valjean, that thief, that ex-con, that convict-mayor, who will be the one to kill him.  
  
Valjean says nothing, does not even look at him, and Javert grits his teeth. To be ignored is to be disrespected and Javert has had enough of that in his lifetime. He has fought tooth and nail for the respect he has earned and he will not be denied!  
  
"A knife suits a cutthroat like you," he snarls.  
  
At this, Valjean flinches. A reaction at last. He turns to face Javert, but does not meet his eyes. The knife in his hand glints in the dim light. It trembles. A hesitation.  
  
"What are you waiting for?" Javert snaps. If he is to die, then he would rather die quickly than to stand here and die of old age.  
  
Another moment of hesitation, then Valjean raises the knife to his throat. Javert wonders if he will notice that there is no trace of stubble on his face nor Adam's apple in his throat. They are close, closer than Javert he ever been to anyone is decades, so close that it would be noticeable. The metal is cold on his neck. Javert tenses now that the moment is finally upon him. Valjean jerks the knife and--  
  
\--and Javert does not die. The rope around his neck falls away. Javert stares, speechless and stunned. Valjean continues on to cut the ropes at his wrists and those falls away as well.  
  
"Go," Valjean tells him, gesturing with the knife.  
  
This is a mistake. Valjean is a criminal and criminals do not simply let their prey go free. There must be some other reason. He still has the rifle in his hand. Javert will be shot when his back is turned, surely. No, he wants to die with dignity, staring down Valjean until death.  
  
"Kill me," Javert demands.  
  
"No. Leave here."  
  
"Valjean," Javert growls, leaning close. Without his usual boots, they are the same height. "You will kill me."  
  
"I will not. You are free," Valjean tells him. He does not take a step back, nor does he flinch at Javert's snarl. Javert glares into those hazel eyes that are still too kind, those eyes that had drawn him in so long ago. There is only sincerity there. He decides he hates it.  
  
He argues and snarls and rages at Valjean, yet Valjean refuses to kill him. He talks of mercy, of forgiveness, of change. Javert hears none of it.  
  
"I am a man; no more and no less," he says.  
  
Javert cannot help the jealousy that rises in him at that.  
  
Valjean tells him his address. It is practically an invitation to storm his home and arrest him whenever Javert pleases. When he had imagined finally catching Valjean, he had thought he would have to hold him down to handcuff him. This... this _surrender_ is anticlimactic and unsatisfying.  
  
Javert turns the corner and hears Valjean's rifle fire into the air.  
  
Nothing that transpired that night had gone according to plan. Javert makes it to his apartment in one muddled piece and then, seeing dawn already breaking, changes into his regular clothes. He is simply not himself without them. With his tall boots and padded greatcoat, things seem to settle into something familiar. Valjean will see that the law will win out and saving Javert's life meant nothing.  
  
By the time he makes it back to the barricades, they have been taken. Peace has been restored, but at what cost? Blood runs between the paving-stones under his feet as he walks between the bodies. A young boy, no older than twelve, lies dead next to the schoolboys and he cannot help but pause. The young gamin who had recognized him. An innocent dead for a dead cause.  
  
Valjean is not among the corpses, yet there is another who surely will be.  
  
When he finds the leader, the one who is like him, he is surprised to find that he is not alone. There, spread atop him, is a dark haired man that Javert vaguely recognizes. The drunk. He looks at peace, resting on the blond leader like a lover. Perhaps they were.  
  
He has not thought of the soft feelings that Madeleine had awoken in him for a very long time. He thinks of them now. If Madeleine were real, then perhaps they could have been--  
  
He shakes his head to clear his head. Ridiculous. He should not be having such thoughts. They are irrational and unproductive.  
  
The leader and his dark haired companion look as if they were sleeping, had it not been for the blood. Javert stares a bit longer, then drags the leader's body away, down the stairs and out the café until Javert decides he is far enough away to not be associated with that particular barricade. He is unnoticed among all the others removing bodies from the chaos.  
  
He wonders what he is doing even as he drags the boy through the narrow, abandoned streets. Is it out loyalty to the one other of whom he shares his rejection of God given sex? Perhaps. They left each other to die; but Javert is saving him from post-mortem humiliation. He can only pray the same is done to him.  
  
The boy is left alone in the street and Javert does not allow himself to think of him again.  
  
Valjean had left him confused. He defies everything Javert had learned. The law is inscribed on his soul and he knows it well, yet Valjean manages to defy it and slip through the cracks. It is another reason to hate him and so Javert does.  
  
It is once again night time and Javert has not slept. He cannot. The sounds of gunfire and death ring loud in his mind even as he walks the bloodless streets. In the gloom, he spots a figure darting across the street. It is Jondrette and suddenly Javert can focus again. Jondrette is not Valjean, could never be Valjean. He will have no qualms about arresting him.  
  
Javert loses him when he ducks into the sewers. He calls a fiacre and waits. Some time or another, Jondrette will be forced to resurface, and then Javert will catch him.  
  
Many hours later, a figure emerges from the sewers. It is not Jondrette. That is immediately obvious. There is a second figure, unconscious or dead, on his back. Javert walks closer and demands identification.  
  
The man is Valjean.  
  
Javert puts up surprising little resistance when he asks for more time. They use the fiacre Javert had waiting. The boy is certainly dead or soon will be, but Valjean wishes to return him to his grandfather regardless. It is another display of goodness in him that is contrary to everything Javert has known.  
  
The boy is returned to his family and a doctor is called for. There is no reason to stay. Valjean asks for yet another favor and Javert agrees without a second thought. Perhaps it is the exhaustion, but he is starting to think he was wrong about Valjean yet again. He let Javert live when it was his right to kill him. That is not the act of a convict, but he knows without a doubt that Valjean is a criminal. Javert can remember him in Toulon, lifting boulders with terrifying strength. Valjean had stolen and broken parole and evaded arrest. He was cruel then, in Toulon, more beast than man. Javert ponders him now, aware of Valjean's questioning look in the dark but does not bother to acknowledge it.  
  
They stop at the address Valjean had given him and somehow it surprised Javert that he had been telling the truth. Of course he was. He is honest. Somehow, he is also not. Valjean is a riddle Javert cannot untangle. He cannot arrest Valjean tonight.  
  
"I will wait for you here," he tells Valjean, intending to do no such thing.  
  
Valjean simply nods, then closes the door behind him.  
  
Javert sends the fiacre away, then returns to the station in a haze. The more he thinks about Valjean, the more confused he is. He thinks of the unjustness of Toulon, then thinks of how it could be improved. Before he knows it, he has written a letter on the improvements to the prison system. He blinks at it, then leaves it at his desk. It is a resignation.  
  
Valjean is a good man, but also a criminal. He cannot arrest Valjean because he is honest. He must arrest Valjean because he broke the law.  
  
He cannot do both.  
  
Never in his life has Javert suffered such a quandary. The choice is impossible. The weight of his pistols is heavy in his coat pockets, but he knows them to be empty. That would have been a quick death. There is no place in Heaven for someone like him, who has defied God by denying the shape He has given him and by denying His law in favor of the law written by man.  
  
Javert turns his feet towards the Seine. There is no hesitation in his step. He knows exactly what he must do.

**Author's Note:**

> This story can end here and stay entirely canon compliant, which is how I originally intended it.
> 
> However, I'm a sucker for fix-it fics and I find myself wanting (needing) to write a post-Seine fix-it from Valjean's pov where it actually becomes valvert, so a second chapter may someday show up. It is not required to fully enjoy what I have already written here. If you do decide to wait, don't hold your breath because I am absolutely terrible about finishing writing things on time or even close to on time. No amount of pleading can change that and I dare not even give you even a ballpark of a due date because I will be fantastically late. It's in the concept of "someday" and "in the future" and "when I get around to it".


End file.
